


The Flying Free Affair

by Jazline



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25652143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazline/pseuds/Jazline
Summary: After an almost untimely demise, Napoleon Solo is sent home to recuperate as long as someone watches over him until he's feeling better...
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 16
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Previously published in "Affairs To Remember"**

**QUICK NOTE:**

**This is my first Slash story! Many thanks to Romanse for all her help and support!**

**6 pm, Thursday evening**

Kendeh Banti and Johnathan Sierra escorted the agents to the door of Napoleon Solo’s apartment.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Sierra asked while Illya Kuryakin began unlocking the door.

Napoleon looked him straight in the eye and nodded. “Yes. A few hours sleep in my own bed will work wonders.”

After the third lock was unlatched, the door swung open.

As Kuryakin turned around to thank his co-workers, he caught Banti’s silent query about Solo’s supposed wellness.

“He will be fine,” Illya assured him before bidding them ‘good night’.

Napoleon Solo walked into the apartment and halted slightly past the path of the door’s closure. Illya grasped his partner’s upper arm while deftly deactivating then reactivating the alarms with his free hand.

The Russian could feel the trembling beneath his grasp, knowing damned well that Napoleon was not as well as he professed to be. His partner’s strength was waning as the seconds passed.

For many years they had worked side by side at UNCLE. They were the closest of friends who had seen each other at his best and his worst. It was this closeness which had given each of them the ability to understand the other without a single word spoken.

“You did put on a good show for the Medical staffers,” Kuryakin mused as he walked Napoleon into the bedroom. “A veritable Academy Award performance, if I may say so.”

Solo weakly nodded. He hoped he could make it to bed before collapsing.

  
  
**A Day and a Half Earlier**  
  
“We are late!” Kuryakin snapped as Napoleon Solo joined him in the elevator. “And you know how he hates tardiness!”  
  
Napoleon smiled slightly, hoping his disarming nature would settle his partner’s ruffled feathers.  
  
“Traffic was just terrible this morning, Illya.”  
  
“I beg to differ, Napoleon! I made it here on time in the same traffic as you. Only I left in a timely fashion.”  
  
“Aha! Then we did NOT traverse the city in the same traffic!” Napoleon quipped holding his “aha” finger in the air.  
  
The elevator slowed as it approached Alexander Waverly’s floor.  
  
“Late night last night?” the Russian accused through squinty eyes.  
  
“Yes... and I’ll leave it at that!”  
  
The elevator door silently slid open, leading the way to Lisa Rodgers’ desk.  
  
“You’re late!” She mused. “And you know how Mr. Waverly hates to be kept waiting.”  
  
“Only by four and half minutes, my sweet.” Napoleon cooed as he neared her desk.  
  
Lisa smiled at him and winked as she depressed the button to The Inner Sanctum.  
  
Illya shot Napoleon a sideways glance then raised his eyebrows.  
  
“Lisa?” he mouthed silently.  
  
Napoleon’s lips curved into a slight smile and he covertly winked again, this time to his partner. A gentlemen never tells.  
  
“You’re late!” Alexander Waverly admonished without looking up from the folder he was reading.  
  
“Sorry, Sir,” Napoleon began. “Traffic was terrible this morning.”  
  
“I beg to disagree, Mr. Solo. I have the traffic reports right here and there seems to be no major delays at the present time. Perhaps you should come up with a better excuse.”  
  
Napoleon did not even have to look over his shoulder to see the Russian smirking.  
  
“Minor lapses of judgment aside,” Waverly continued, “ we have a new situation to deal with.”  
  
Illya and Napoleon took their seats at Waverly’s round table. The Old Man dimmed the lights in his office while a movie screen lowered from the ceiling. With the press of a button, the first slide appeared on the screen.  
  
A private yacht with a host of people on board was presented first. The boat was exquisite - three-tiered, pristine white. The slide showed the yacht in the distance, framed against a clear blue sky and ocean. “Flying Free” was painted in scripted letters on the port side. The agents recognized its location as being in the Lower Bay to the south of Staten Island, the Outerbridge Crossing in the background.  
  
Kuryakin stood and moved a little closer to the screen, placing his black-rimmed glasses on his face as he approached.  
  
“Hmmm, that appears to be a Cruisegear 640,” Illya said as he scrutinized the slide. “48 feet long, 640 horsepower, cruises at 27 knots with a maximum speed of 31.”  
  
Solo opened his mouth to ask his Russian partner how the hell he knew all this information, but instead sarcastically asked: “And how many gallons will she hold?”  
  
“160, diesel, with twin fuel tanks,” Kuryakin answered matter-of-factly. “She also holds about 200 gallons of fresh water.” Illya paused, scrutinizing the slide even further. “The flag indicates that it is of Liberian registry. Am I to assume that this was purposely done to avoid your government’s restrictions?”  
  
“Your assumption is correct, Mr. Kuryakin. The _Flying Free!_ has been spotted mooring by Charleston... across the Arthur Kill from Perth Amboy.”  
  
Click - and the next slide appeared. It was a close-up of the same yacht.  
  
“Recognize any of these people, gentlemen?” Waverly asked.  
  
At first glance, the people on board appeared to be on a fishing excursion. All were male and casually dressed for deep-sea fishing. Most of them had several days’ beard growth, indicating they had not just gotten onboard.  
  
Click - and the third slide appeared. The photographer had zoomed in even closer, further exposing the identities of the guests.  
  
“Aah, yes,” Napoleon said, “I do believe we know these fine folks. It looks like some of the Thrush upper echelon have taken a liking to deep-sea fishing.”  
  
Illya’s finger silently moved in the air as he counted the Thrushies on board.  
  
“I count thirteen,” he said seconds later. “Among them are Adderly Graham, Merlin Janonico, Rodrigo Caruso and Eugene Newsome. Am I to assume there are more below deck?”  
  
Napoleon chuckled. “Like the rats?”  
  
Waverly ignored Solo’s comment and clicked on the lights in his office.  
  
“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, there are more below, as well a cache of explosives.”  
  
“Now why should this surprise us?” Napoleon asked. “I doubt Thrush has vacation incentives for its employees. A bit mundane for them, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
This time, Waverly smiled.  
  
“The explosives, gentlemen, are a new formula designed by Thrush. They call it ‘MDn’, short for ‘Mass Destruction, Nth degree’. It had been designed to blast through dense materials with minimal effort.”  
  
“How is that different from their other explosives?” Kuryakin asked.  
  
“According to our sources, only a small amount is needed to do the job.,” Waverly explained. “Unlike other types of explosives, a walnut-sized ball of the base material will bring down a bank vault door. It’s stable and virtually useless until combined with a catalyst.”  
  
“Similar to the qualities of epoxy glue,” Kuryakin added. “The base explosive needs the formula and molecular structure of the catalyst to activate it. But what is... how shall I put it?... the ‘big deal’ with this formula? We have comparable explosives.”  
  
“The big deal, Mr. Kuryakin, is that Thrush is now manufacturing the formula. The implications are beyond imagination. If a small amount can blast through eight inches of solid steel, can you imagine what large quantities could do?” Waverly’s eyebrows furrowed. “This is not good. They will, of course, use all they need, and the remaining explosives would be sold to whomever will meet their price. The compact nature of this formula would fetch a hefty sum. Not to mention that any subversive group with adequate financial resources could begin arming themselves with this explosive.”  
  
“I see this as being a twofold mission,” Napoleon surmised. “I take it that one of us will demolish the munitions plant, and the other will take care of the yacht.”  
  
Illya Kuryakin adjusted his glasses. “Just how advanced are they in the manufacturing of this product?”  
  
Alexander Waverly pushed another button on his console. The center of his round table separated and a map of New Jersey’s Atlantic coast materialized. The Old Man leaned over the table.  
  
“Their operations are in their infancy. Our sources indicate the explosives are being manufactured in a small waterfront facility in Perth Amboy, New Jersey’” he said as his fist pounded the site just south of New York City. “The location of the plant is pivotal for exportation by land and sea. To date, they are moving their only prototype with the yacht _Flying Free!._ No one, not even the federal authorities, knows that this so-called excursion boat has enough explosives and catalyst to destroy a major chunk of New York’s waterfront.”  
  
Waverly picked up two manila folders and waved them in the air.  
  
“Here are your assignments, gentlemen. Mr. Kuryakin, your knowledge of munitions will be of great value in disarming the Perth Amboy plant. And you, Mr. Solo, will be responsible for clipping the wings of the _Flying Free! “_  
  
The manila folders were placed on his circular table, and with a flick of his wrist, the tabletop spun around to his two top agents. “Good luck. There’s no room for failure with this mission!”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
It took only twenty minutes’ time to devise their plans after leaving Waverly’s office.  
  
  
The duo headed to their shared office after leaving Alexander Waverly’s Inner Sanctum. As usual, their door mechanically swished open. In a rare moment of hesitation, the pair stopped outside the door, uncertain who would cross the threshold first. Their eyes met and they chuckled. In a gallant gesture, Illya swept his hand through the door to offer his partner entrance. Napoleon jokingly bowed equally as gallant and walked in.  
  
“According to our data,” Illya stated after reading the information Waverly had given them, “the explosives were foolishly made from a water-based material. This means that it would be rendered useless with water, particularly salt water.” Piercing blue eyes peered over his black-rimmed glasses, waiting for Napoleon’s response.  
  
Solo smiled. “So, when I successfully sink the yacht, the prototype is destroyed along with it.”  
  
“Handy piece of information, eh?”  
  
“Our next step is to get you into the Perth Amboy Plant.”  
  
“Fear not, my friend. I will have that under control shortly.”  
  
They did enjoy each other’s company. Over the years they had matured into a comfortable friendship, accepting each other’s strengths and foibles. It was only in each other’s company that they could drop their defenses and be vulnerable.  
  
They had seen each other at their best and at their worst. They had bickered and argued like an old married couple, consoled each other during post-mission meltdowns, safeguarded each other’s secrets and dreams. In times of trouble they protected each other’s backs. When disparaging words were said against one, the other always came to his defense.  
  
The Russian stood up, pushing his chair back under the desk. “I need to put my team together, Napoleon,” he began. Then he smiled. “There are a few new agents who love blowing things up as much as I do.”  
  
The smile... that smile... was a rarity for the population in general. But Napoleon was one of the lucky few who basked in its glow.  
  
“I need to sort out a few things as well,” Solo returned, waking himself from the momentary diversion.  
  
“Very well,” Illya said as he turned to leave.  
  
Napoleon’s desk stood between him and the door. Rather than cross the room in front of the desk, Illya slipped behind Napoleon’s chair. He gently patted the back of his partner’s suit jacket as he passed. Before exiting, he looked Solo in the eyes smiled again, nodding slightly before the door slid open.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Illya Kuryakin chose two Section Two agents with advanced skills in explosives to accompany him to Perth Amboy. Kendeh Banti from Nigeria and Johnathan Sierra from Cincinnati caucused with Kuryakin as they packed their gear and finalized their plans to disable the munitions factory. Despite the urge to descend upon the Thrush installation immediately, the trio decided to wait until they had a cover of darkness to demolish the plant.  
  
They studied maps of the surrounding areas, noting which streets led to the warehouse as well as water access and the municipal infrastructure below the installation.  
  
While the Russian and his team planned their warehouse assault, Napoleon Solo consulted with the agents in Section Eight’s Research and Development department to regale himself with whatever toys deemed necessary to successfully sink a yacht.  
  
Inwardly, Solo would have preferred working side-by-side with Illya Kuryakin. Their success rate on missions was far higher working together than apart. Although both agents understood their boss’ reasoning to divide his ‘resources’ for this particular mission, Napoleon had an uneasy feeling about working alone to demolish contents of the yacht.  
  
The Old Man understood the dynamics of their working relationship and often gave them the leeway to act, trusting their instincts. The working relationship they had developed over the years had given them a bond stronger than brothers. But today, he needed them divided. Kuryakin was the natural choice for demolishing the munitions plant, and Solo should be able to destroy the yacht single-handedly.  
  
The agents’ paths did not cross before leaving headquarters. Neither bid the other good-bye.


	2. Chapter 2

The weather was picture perfect for a late afternoon in mid May. Napoleon Solo boarded the _City Lights_ Harbor Cruiser with the other party goers. Casually dressed in khaki slacks and a dark green IZOD sweater, he blended into the crowd.  
  
Solo walked about the ship’s deck before it disembarked, apparently waiting for his supposed date to arrive. He would periodically look at the boarding ramp as if 'she' was supposed to appear at any given time.  
  
But there would be no date joining him that afternoon. Instead, he would be sailing solo, taking in the sights of the city from aboard the harbor cruiser. The boat planned to tour the passengers along the waterfront and around the Statue of Liberty, ending just after sunset. Couples holding hands gazed at the city as the cruiser slowly glided across the water. Passengers having had too much to drink wove their way through the crowds, a little louder than the rest. Small groups of people stood about, enjoying the sights.  
  
Napoleon walked around, appearing as touristy as possible, flirting with the young ladies whether they were alone or had young men attached at their hands. As the cruiser rounded the basin towards the Statue of Liberty, Solo slipped down the ship’s stairs to the lower level.  
  
Absolutely no one noticed him entering a small closet which housed the life jackets, nor did anyone see him exit with an oxygen tank, flippers, and a mask. And not a single soul saw him divest himself of his clothing and slip the oxygen tank on the wetsuit he wore. Napoleon Solo then walked unobserved as he made his way to the back of the ship, slipped on his flippers, and lowered himself into the water.  
  


* * * * *

  
By 8 o’clock in the evening, darkness had sufficiently shrouded Perth Amboy for the agents’ move. Kuryakin, Banti and Sierra had thoroughly mapped out the surroundings of the munitions facility and were ready to infiltrate. They silently watched as the third shift entered the building before the second shift left for the day. The workers were ordinary looking grunts in jeans and lumber jackets. Kuryakin and his team, wearing similar attire, blended into the area so well, no one noticed their presence.  
  
The agents assumed the warehouse workers were low level Thrushies and were entitled to periodic breaks. As predicted, by 9 pm, the first three stepped outside the building for a quick smoke.  
  
Kuryakin instructed his men to wait until the smokers moved a distance from the building. They patiently waited until the Thrushies walked to the perimeter fence before rendering them unconscious.  
  
The three UNCLE agents waited a few moments before entering the building. They nodded to the guards at the door as they walked in, acting like business as usual.  
  
The inside of the facility reminded Kuryakin of a beehive. The drones were each doing their jobs, moving about with efficiency, tending to the tasks at hand. The warehouse was brightly lit with large banks of fluorescent lights on the ceiling. A productive din filled the building.  
  
Once inside, they separated and headed towards different sections of the installation. Beneath their bulky flannel lumber jackets were explosives of their own.  
  
 _This is too easy!_ Kuryakin thought. He was surprised by the lax security. Perhaps it was Thrush’s overconfidence.  
  
Johnathan Sierra headed to the vats of plastique compound. Pretending to have an unruly shoelace, he bent down to retie his shoe while positioning a wad of UNCLE’s own brand of explosive at the base of the vat. After tying his shoe, he nonchalantly wandered to a similar vat which probably held the catalyst. He shook his head at Thrush’s stupidity. Why the hell would they manufacture the catalyst in the same room as the explosive?  
  
Kendeh Banti made his way towards the electrical system completely unnoticed by the guards. He looked about surreptitiously as he scratched his head. While his hand was raised to quell the ‘itch’, he placed his explosives beneath the wires which fed power to the building.  
  
The water supply feeding the installation was housed behind the toilets. Illya Kuryakin walked to the lavatory with his head lowered. Of the three agents, he felt he was the most recognizable and would benefit from being out of Thrush’s sight while planting his share of the explosives.  
  
In precisely six minutes, the three UNCLE agents silently exited the building. They joined four other Thrush smokers by the fence. Kuryakin looked at his watch, seemingly pissed that their own break was too short.  
  
“Yeah,” one of the Thrushmen mused, “y’ad think dose guys at HQ would cut us a little slack, eh?”  
  
“This job sucks, but it pays the bills,” Johnathan Sierra added, pulling his jacket tighter across his chest. “What I would do for the night off!”  
  
Kuryakin smirked as Sierra covertly pressed the stem of his wristwatch. At that moment, the charge Sierra had placed tore a large hole in the base of the vat. A subtle twist of the stem discharged his second explosive. The yelling and shouts from inside the facility filtered through the walls.  
  
Banti activated his charge next, sending the electrical system on the fritz. The lights inside flickered and waned, then sparks appeared, setting the facility ablaze.  
  
Finally, Kuryakin set off his charge, disabling the sprinkler system.  
  
In less than a minute, the entire Thrush facility was engulfed in flames. Scores of Thrush underlings ran from the building in fear of their lives. Illya mused that it looked like ants abandoning their anthill. The chain-link fence around the perimeter gave them adequate distance from the burning structure  
  
As the explosive and catalyst met, a brilliant fireball flared skyward, bringing down the remaining walls of the warehouse. The men along the perimeter fence instinctively shielded their faces.  
  
“Yo Buddy!” the smoker yelled to Sierra. “Looks like you got ‘yer wish after all!”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Dusk presented many obstacles for scuba diving under the most ideal conditions and the New York Harbor’s water quality never even came close to ideal. As the daylight waned, Napoleon depended on his innate sense of direction and “the Solo luck” to lead him to the exact yacht moored in Charleston.  
  
Napoleon had equipped himself with a small but powerful flashlight. The pencil-thin beam would not give away his presence by creating too much light below the water.  
  
After swimming alongside two yachts not bearing the underside markings of the _Flying Free!_ Solo found the correct one. He clamped the flashlight to the hood of his wetsuit before removing a small drill from the pouch around his waist. The drill, encased in a waterproof housing, was capable of boring through several inches of steel. A powerful battery pack ensured its performance for the time needed to do the job.  
  
Solo needed to bore a series of small holes around the lower belly of the yacht. The ‘MDn’ explosives were housed in the lowest section and probably separated from the next deck of the yacht with a watertight, sealed chamber. Napoleon’s goal was to literally drown the MDn with the brackish waters of the New York Harbor at a slow rate. If the lowest chamber took on too much water too quickly, Thrush would most likely be alerted to his intrusion via sensors.  
  
A sudden change in the water’s ebb and flow alerted Napoleon to an approaching boat. He shut the flashlight and moved to the far side of the yacht so his air bubbles would not disclose his location. At this point, less than half of the intended holes had been bored.  
  
The second vessel slowed to within inches of the _Flying Free!_ before the engine was shut down. The belly of the _Flying Free!_ shifted with the weight of the people climbing aboard. Napoleon felt the subtle vibrations of footsteps descending to the lower portion of the yacht.  
  
Solo swam around to where the two vessels met, and slowly surfaced.  
  
The second boat also belonged to Thrush. A small Thrush-bird insignia was displayed beneath the vessel’s identification number. Solo looked up, trying to make a quick identification of the newcomers, but dusk’s darkness shielded their identities.  
  
Napoleon pulled his mask over his eyes and sank beneath the surface of the water again. He started maneuvering himself towards the bow as the yacht lurched forward, its engines whirring into readiness. The turbulence tossed him about, threatening to sweep him into the path of the propellers.  
  
Above, the crew of the _Flying Free!_ released the mooring ropes in preparation to disembark. Napoleon heard the muted sounds of the activity above and realized that he would literally be going along for the ride.  
  
Despite the murkiness of the water, an eye bolt caught a little of the ambient light filtering through. Solo pulled a tethering rope from his belt and attached himself to the eye bolt. Napoleon Solo held on to the rope with both hands, tucking his head between his arms as the _Flying Free!_ took off. He knew streamlining his body would minimize the discomfort.  
  
The chilled water washed around him as the cruiser made its way out of Charleston. For the moment, his medium weight wetsuit was adequate. If the ship was making its way far off the Atlantic Coast, the lack of heavy-duty insulation would not protect him from the frigid waters.  
  
The journey was short. As the yacht slowed, Napoleon surfaced and saw that the Outerbridge Crossing was only a short distance behind him. To his right was Perth Amboy, New Jersey.  
  
The UNCLE CEA needed to work quickly. He dove beneath the surface of the water to continue boring the holes necessary to destroy the ‘MDn’ prototype.  
  
As Solo finished drilling the last of the holes, yellowish-orange lights flickered through the murky water. Napoleon could feel the vibrations of people quickly moving about the yacht, and as he surfaced, he heard the sounds of people onboard frantically yelling.  
  
The agent looked over his shoulder at the Perth Amboy waterfront and saw the Thrush warehouse explode into flames.  
  
His holes were bored and the _Flying Free!_ was slowly taking on water. The warehouse had been demolished. The mission was a success.  
  
Napoleon Solo activated his homing signal.  
  
All he now needed was for UNCLE to fetch him out of the murky water.  
  
It was still relatively early. He checked his watch - 8:30 pm. His mind momentarily considered the romantic possibilities for this evening. He quickly went through his mental rolodex of women who might be available on the spur of the moment. Perhaps if he got back to Headquarters at a decent hour, got himself cleaned up, had his debriefing... trailing that thought came the mental image of Illya Kuryakin. He chuckled to himself as the imaginary parade of beautiful women faded and his partner was really the one with whom he really wanted to share his time tonight.  
  
 _Besides_ , he rationalized, _it would probably be too late to drop in on one of my female standards. But Illya would definitely be available for... if nothing else... a meal. That little man does like to eat!_  
  
His momentary fantasy vanished as he swam to the surface for one last look. He did not expect to see a slew of faces peering down at him from the yacht’s deck. Fingers pointed his way and people began running about. Napoleon dove beneath the surface of the water and began frantically swimming away.  
  
Less than fifty meters from the yacht, something wrapped itself around Napoleon Solo’s body, snaring him in what felt like a fishing net. With the flick if his wrist, a sharp knife slid into Solo’s grip in hopes of freeing himself. The netting jerked backwards, drawing him closer to the yacht. Despite the sudden movement, Napoleon maintained his grasp on the knife, desperately trying to cut himself loose. It was the upward motion of his net being winched on to the back of the yacht which caused the knife to wrench free.  
  
“Well, what do we have here?” a booming voice yelled as the net was hauled to the base of the winch.  
  
Napoleon Solo raised his mask with a relatively free hand to scan to faces of his new hosts as he dangled over the water. Adderly Graham and Rodrigo Caruso were among them. Behind them were at least eight others, all with guns drawn.  
  
The snarled mass of net was hauled on deck. The gunmen surrounded Napoleon Solo as he lay on the wooden planks, tangled from head to toe in the netting.  
  
Before freeing him, Rodrigo Caruso felt around Solo’s waist and unfastened the belt which carried the agent’s supplies. Caruso worked the belt through the netting and rifled through it. He found Napoleon’s homing device and held it up.  
  
“I’m sooooo glad you carried this on ya’!” Caruso snarled. Solo recognized the voice as the one who greeted him as he was hauled up the wince. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t’ve found ‘ya. Our equipment picked up your frequency”  
  
The homing device was thrown to the deck before a heavy booted foot smashed it to pieces.  
  
Solo made a mental note to advise Section Eight to change the frequency of their homing devices.  
  
Graham approached the net and kicked at Napoleon, pointing to the fire raging on the waterfront.  
  
“You’re responsible for this!” he shrieked. “You son-of-a-bitch! I’ve worked on this formula for the past three years! How the hell did you find out about us?”  
  
Six of the gunmen held their mark while the other two began unsnarling Solo from the net.  
  
“Now gentlemen, be reasonable. This is a complete misunderstanding.” Solo’s voice was casual.  
  
Misunderstanding?” Adderly Graham yelled. “You’re out here in the New York Harbor in scuba gear... in the middle of the night...and you expect us to believe this is completely unrelated to my warehouse burning down?” In his rage, Graham kicked the agent several more times.  
  
More of the netting had been released, and the Thrush grunts were starting to slowly untangle Napoleon Solo from its grasp.  
  
“Being in two places at one time is grounds for sainthood,” Solo said seriously. “And I am no saint.”  
  
The agent’s torso had been freed from the net. One of the Thrushmen removed the scuba flippers from Solo’s feet to free the rest of his body.  
  
“And just who the hell are you anyway?” Rodrigo snarled. “:And what are you doing around my yacht?”  
  
“I am a bona fide member of _Harbor Rats_ ,” Solo began. “If you would be so kind to hand me back my belt, I’ll show you my ID card.”  
  
“Not on your life, buddy!” Caruso returned. “And exactly what is a ‘ _Harbor Rat_ ’?”  
  
Napoleon Solo stood up after being freed from the netting, careful not to provoke the six gunmen still pointing their weapons at him.  
  
The agent flashed them a smile. “We go scuba diving where others fear to tread.”  
  
“The New York Harbor?”  
  
“Not exactly pristine waters, wouldn’t you say?” Solo mused.  
  
The sound of footsteps coming from the decks below halted the conversation. Merlin Janonico and Eugene Newsome came running on to the deck, arms flailing wildly, conversing privately with Caruso and Adderly.  
  
“That’s impossible!” Caruso was overheard shouting. “There’s no way in hell this yacht could be taking on water.....”  
  
Caruso slowly turned toward Solo and snapped the mask completely off the agent’s face.  
  
“Jesus Christ! This is Napoleon Solo!” Eugene Newsome spat. “UNCLE is responsible for this fiasco!”  
  
“Gentlemen, please...” Solo continued, hoping to buy a little time until Kuryakin arrived.  
“I do believe this is a case of mistaken identity. If you would just hand me my belt...” Solo reached out for his belt, but Rodrigo Caruso, still holding the belt, snapped it further from him. The gunmen still stood at ready.  
  
Adderly Graham took the belt from Caruso and gingerly opened the compartments. He quickly discovered the reason for the yacht taking on water when he extracted the drill.  
  
“Get this tub out of here immediately!” Graham demanded as he headed to the lower deck. “And bring this bastard below!”  
  
The engines were revved and the yacht lurched forward, out to sea.  
  
Napoleon Solo feigned compliance as the handcuffs were about to bind him, but at an opportune moment, grabbed the wrist of the man about to manacle him and swung him around, bowling over three of the armed Thrushmen. As others approached, Solo slithered through them hoping to make it overboard and escape in the darkness.  
  
His plans were thwarted when one of the gunmen tripped him as he neared the railing. The agent sprawled across the deck. The remaining Thrushmen immediately descended upon him. Once pinned down, he was duly subdued and taken to the lower deck.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
In the darkness, another vessel cruised along the New York Harbor, coming to a halt between Staten Island and Perth Amboy. Three men in jeans, lumber jackets, and woolen caps stood onboard, looking over the side of the UNCLE boat.  
  
“According to Napoleon’s last signal, he should be around here,” Illya Kuryakin said.  
  
Kendeh Banti danced the boat’s spotlight over the surface of the water, looking for telltale signs of Solo’s presence. No air bubbles surfacing, no body floating.  
  
Kuryakin activated his communicator. “Open Channel D. Patch me through to Mr. Waverly.”  
  
Within seconds, the Old Man’s voice crackled through the airwaves.  
  
“Status, Mr. Kuryakin.”  
  
“We are at the site of Napoleon’s last signal, but we can find neither hide nor hair of him. Have you had any transmissions from him?”  
  
“No. His signal went dead shortly after activation. Do you see any sign of the _Flying Free!_?”  
  
“No, sir,” Illya sighed. “The harbormaster in Charleston said the boat left shortly before sunset. I assume Napoleon stayed with the yacht and drilled his holes before activating his homing device.”  
  
Kuryakin frowned into the communicator when he heard was an expletive from the other end. “You have your work cut out for you, Mr. Kuryakin. Find that yacht!”


	3. Chapter 3

Napoleon Solo had been literally dragged below on unsteady legs. It had not been difficult for Merlin Janonico and Eugene Newsome to bind him hand-and-foot to a chair.  
  
As Solo’s senses became more alert, he realized that the chair he had been tied to was bolted to the floor. His wetsuit had been unzipped and pulled down over his upper arms, further restricting his movements. The movement of the vessel and the humming of the motor signaled Solo they were still headed out to sea.  
  
The Thrush quartet stood around him. Behind them the gunmen stood with weapons drawn.  
  
“Aah, the Four Musketeers are all present and accounted for,” Solo mused, still a little lightheaded. “I guess I should take all this security as a compliment.”  
  
Merlin Janonico was not humored. He backhanded Solo across the mouth, then struck him again. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of the agent’s lip.  
  
“How did UNCLE find out about us?” Adderly Graham asked, furious his plant had been sabotaged.  
  
“I honestly don’t know,” Solo sighed. “There’s little communication between departments at UNCLE. As a matter of fact, I have often recommended interdepartmental cooperation...”  
  
Graham stopped Napoleon’s prattling with a blow to the chest. “Cut the crap, Solo! We have kept this a well-guarded secret for the past six months.”  
  
“Six months?” Solo interjected. “Hmmm - our intelligence department needs to get on the stick, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
Eugene Newsome felt no need to continue questioning Solo in this manner. They were getting nowhere. He turned towards a compact wall cabinet and returned with a small metal box. Wordlessly he opened the box, removed a syringe and filled it half way from vial of pale amber liquid. He then advanced towards the UNCLE agent.  
  
“This really isn’t necessary. I’ve already had my allergy shot this month,” the agent said, once again trying to buy a little time. He knew Kuryakin would be searching for him.  
  
The only reaction Napoleon Solo got was a slight smirk from the Thrushman as he injected the serum into his right biceps.  
  
The initial sensation of warmth flooding throughout him preceded the drowsiness. Napoleon silently mused that this had to have been the most pleasant drug Thrush had ever given him. Of course, he also realized that once his senses were fuzzy, he would be unsure of the information they could extract from him.  
  
“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall,” Solo began singing. He needed to occupy his brain with something repetitive and nonsensical. “Ninety-nine bottles of beer. You take one down and pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall.”  
  
The agent paused and looked around. “Well, fellas - join in with me, OK?”  
  
The Thrush quartet looked at each other, unsure what to think.  
  
“Ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall. Ninety-eight bottles of beer. You take one down and pass it around, ninety-seven bottles of beer on the wall. Aaw, c’mon!” the agent could hear his voice beginning to slur. “This is no fun singing alone.”  
  
Adderly Graham, Merlin Janonico, Rodrigo Caruso and Eugene Newsome stood silently, watching their drug take hold of Solo.  
  
“Ninety-seven bottles of beer on the floor, eighty-two bottles of beer. You break one and you have...”  
  
Solo’s singing stopped.  
  
Rodrigo Caruso moved within inches of Napoleon’s right ear. “Tell me what you know about this operation.”  
  
Napoleon looked at him through the corner of a slitted eye. “Ninety-six bottles of beer on the wall...” UNCLE’s conditioning was in full throttle.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
For several hours, the Thrush foursome tried unsuccessfully to garner information from Napoleon Solo. They realized their efforts were useless each time the UNCLE agent broke into another stanza of “Ninety-Nine Bottles Of Beer On The Wall.”  
  
In frustration, Caruso contacted Thrush Central. An in-wall monitor connected Thrush’s Upper Echelon with the men on the yacht.  
  
From their end of the transmission, the Thrush Central leaders saw a groggy Napoleon Solo sitting bound to the chair. The agent’s chin rested on his chest, eyes closed with his lips moving.  
  
“What is he saying?” the Thrush Leader’s voice boomed over the loud speaker.  
  
Rodrigo sighed. “Something about ‘Seventy-two bottles of beer on the wall.” he relayed in frustration.  
  
“It’s that damned UNCLE drug conditioning!” Thrush Leader spat. “We’ve got to step up our drug research.” A short silence followed.  
  
Thrush Leader finally instructed his men aboard _Flying Free!_ to rid themselves of Napoleon Solo any way they saw fit.  
  
Merlin Janonico smirked to his cohorts and made a suggestion. They listened intently and agreed. Adderly Graham activated his Thrush communicator and contacted the Staten Island satrapy. He explained their dilemma and the solution.  
  
By 2 am, the yacht was silently heading back towards the New Jersey shoreline with a semiconscious Napoleon Solo still tethered to the chair.  
  


  
  
The _Flying Free!_ neared East Keansberg’s shores shortly before 3 am. As planned, the Thrush welcoming committee had preceded their arrival and began their dig along the shoreline.  
  
The small expanse of beach along the New Jersey coast was situated near the hump of the state’s northern shoreline, south of New York City and Staten Island. Thrush had specifically chosen a secluded area to get rid of Napoleon Solo’s body.  
  
By the time the yacht neared the site, Thrush’s work was apparent. From their offshore vantage point, the crew of the _Flying Free!_ saw construction spotlights illuminated a patch of beach. From their distance they could not see the gaping hole created by a wide gauge post digger.  
  
The post digger’s auger had just lifted and the wheeled vehicle was backing away. A Thrushman was inspecting the hole and waved his arms, beckoning the men on board the yacht. Timing was essential. The tide was coming in, but for the moment, the hole was safe.  
  
Now clad in wetsuits themselves, the Four Thrushmen of the _Flying Free!_ lowered themselves overboard the yacht with Napoleon Solo in tow. They carefully keep the UNCLE agent’s head above water to prevent his premature drowning.  
  
Under the darkness of night, the four men slithered through the water with their quarry. Once they neared the shore, they got their footing and continued to drag Solo to the illuminated area.  
  
“How deep did you make the hole?” Merlin Janonico asked when they were within earshot.  
  
“A little over three feet deep, like you ordered,” the post digger’s driver replied.  
  
Adderly Graham nodded. “Perfect!”  
  
The hole in the beach appeared to be about eighteen inches wide, large enough to accommodate Napoleon Solo’s body.  
  
The UNCLE agent was carried to the hole. With the assistance of his comrades, Graham and Janonico were able to lower the bottom half of Solo’s body into the sand.  
  
As they worked, the tide inched to the shore. After several moments, their flippers sloshed in the sea water as it rose.  
  
The sensation of being manhandled into the chilled earth roused Napoleon Solo’s senses. Feebly, his body began to fight against the hands forcing him into the hole. A mixture of inky blackness and the blaring beams of the spotlights confused him. Strangers in black shiny suits held him, restrained him, forced him into a confining space. A bizarre chill formed a cocoon around him as the sand and cold Atlantic Ocean began filling in the hole.  
  
He looked down at himself. His lower body had been buried in the sand up to his rib cage. Solo had no idea where he was or what was happening to him. His mind was fuzzy, his surroundings terrifying and unclear. Voices, strange unfamiliar voices, sounded above the ocean as it’s watery fingers began wrapping around him.  
  
Within minutes the Thrush crew finished their chore, doused the lights, removed the machinery, and left. In the ambient light of the waning moon, Solo watched the four men from the yacht dive into the ocean and back to their lair.  
  
A horrible sense of panic overwhelmed him but his well honed instincts took over as he tried freeing himself.  
  
He was completely alone.  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Illya Kuryakin’s communicator sounded.  
  
“Yes?” he barked tersely into the metal pen without any form of civility.  
  
“Mr. Kuryakin,” Alexander Waverly’s voice began, “the Coast Guard just confiscated Thrush’s yacht. They issued a distress call five minutes ago.” The Russian looked at his wristwatch - 4:30 am  
  
“Where are they now?” Illya asked, pulling a pen from his pocket.  
  
“Six miles south of Barnegat Bay.” There was a short silence. ‘Mr. Solo was not on board the yacht.”  
  
Illya Kuryakin spun around to his boat’s deck and grabbed a map of the New Jersey coastline. He pointed one finger where Napoleon’s homing device was last charted, and gauging the time that had passed, the speed of the yacht, and its current location, the Russian attempted to figure out approximately where his partner may be.  
  
“Mr. Kuryakin?” the voice crackled over the communicator.  
  
“Ah, yes sir... I’m just checking the charts in an attempt to find where they may have discarded Napoleon.”  
  
“I regret to inform you, but I doubt he’s alive.”  
  
Illya took a deep breath. “Have they confessed to killing him?”  
  
“Not exactly. But from what they’d said, he is probably dead by now.”  
  
“Then please allow me the one chance to see if I can find him. Kuryakin out,” the agent snapped, capping his communicator.  
  
Illya Kuryakin looked up at Kendeh Banti and Johnathan Sienna, still on board the UNCLE boat with him. “Take this tub back towards Staten Island immediately!”  
  
Waverly knew better than to order his Russian agent back to headquarters. The Old Man merely sighed as Kuryakin cut off communications. “He may as well get it out of his system,” the head of Section One quietly said to no one.  
  
In his infinite wisdom, Waverly did understand the foundation for his two top agents’ bond. The casual observer would see two men who worked together for many years, often in life and death situations. Two highly intelligent, capable, resourceful men who trusted each other with their lives.  
  
But Alexander Waverly knew it went deeper than that. He had noticed how one would subtly brush his shoulder against the other... or a glance that would last a fraction of a second too long... or a hand that would gently grace the other’s back when walking... or... There were many signals, whether or not Solo and Kuryakin were even aware of them yet.  
  
The Old Man could read people like a book.

  
* * * * *

  
The water had now surrounded Napoleon Solo, forming a thin layer just above the sand encircling his ribcage. The agent fought to dig himself out of the hole but each time he made even the slightest headway, the ocean thwarted his efforts by refilling the void.  
  
Frantically, Napoleon clawed at the sand around him, trying in vain to free himself. He was still unsure of what had happened, how he ended up buried in the sand, but he knew he needed to get himself out.  
  
Solo looked around. Nothing. Blackness behind him and the rolling of the ocean ahead of him. The moon cast a dim light on the waves as they advanced.  
  
In desperation, he began screaming for help. But no one heard him.  
  
The UNCLE agent fought against the panic he felt as he continued digging through the sand entrapping him. As the water deepened his efforts became increasingly difficult.  
  
More and more water wrapped itself around Napoleon. As the tide crept further up the shore, the waves broke increasingly closer to him, washing over him with their foamy caps. Despite the fatigue he felt, he continued digging against the forces of nature he knew would eventually win. He stopped only periodically to catch his breath and assess the situation.  
  
An aura of dread shrouded him, suffocating him almost as efficiently as the ocean. In his panic, he silently prayed for Illya to show up for one of his heroic rescues. And then the pangs of regret further swelled his throat closed - he never even said “Good-bye” to his partner before leaving headquarters.  
  
Regrets. Regrets. Things left unsaid floated through his mind. He really did love the prickly Russian like a brother. And perhaps even more - more than he was aware of - until now - now that he would never see his closest friend again.  
  
 _Illya! Illya! Illya! Illya! Illya!_ pounded through his brain.  
  
And then he heard the same words screaming from his lips. But no one heard him.  
  
The tide had risen considerably. It was not long before his shoulders barely surfaced above the water. The waves had graduated from whitecaps to swells as the water deepened, forcing him to sway and toss about underwater. The depth receded less and less as the moments ticked away.  
  
Then the larger swells began smothering him. He finally abandoned the idea of digging and started flailing his arms in a desperate attempt to hold back the forces of the ocean.  
  
The lapses between gulps of air lengthened. Solo began to feel lightheaded with the nighttime sky and ocean swirling around him. The Atlantic roared in his ears as it submerged him for indeterminate periods of time. And then it would relent slightly, affording him the brief luxury of another lung full of precious air.  
  


  
  
  
Kuryakin and his team stood on the deck of their boat in their wetsuits. Kendeh Banti piloted the craft, intently following the directions given him by the tense Russian.  
  
Johnathan Sierra had assembled the night-vision scanner with the slim hope of finding a warm body somewhere in the general proximity of the boat.  
  
“According to my calculations,” Kuryakin said, one eye on the map and the other on the compass, “they may have dropped Napoleon around here.”  
  
“Hopefully alive and in one piece,” Sierra added. “If so, this scanner should be able to pick up the heat radiating from him.”  
  
“Slow it down a bit, Kendeh,” Illya said as they neared the shoreline at the crest of Sandy Hook, New Jersey. The slim finger of land rested southeast of Perth Amboy. “Considering the time which passed since Napoleon’s signal and the yacht’s capture, this may be where they parted company. Not to mention Thrush’s recent affinity with this particular part of New Jersey.”  
  
There was an erie silence from Sierra and Banti. Illya knew why, of course. Had his partner been alive when Thrush disposed of him, the chances of him surviving the forces of the ocean were doubtful.  
  
After rounding the crest of Sandy Hook, the UNCLE crew scoured the shoreline with the boat’s high beam lights and the night-vision scanner.  
  
For approximately ten miles there was nothing - no sign of any heat-bearing being. According to the map, East Keansberg was next, followed by a few other locations before a northward turn towards Perth Amboy.  
  
“Kendeh!” Johnathan Sierra shouted, “Stop the boat!”  
  
“What is it?” Kuryakin asked as he rushed to the scanner.  
  
Sierra pointed to a pair of small green dots appearing and disappearing and reappearing near the coastline.  
  
Banti cut the boat’s engine and dropped anchor. He aimed searchlights at the spot picked up by the scanner. The team gauged their target to be less than 300 feet away toward the shore.  
  
Within seconds, the three agents had air tanks strapped to their backs, flippers on their feet, and masks on their faces. One by one, they sat on the edge of the vessel and dropped backwards into the chilly Atlantic.  
  
Each agent had a high beam flashlight clipped to the hood of his wetsuit to help them navigate the murky water. Sand and seaweed churned up by the incoming tide limited the visibility.  
  
As they neared the shoreline, the murkiness increased. When they felt the ocean floor below, the agents stood up and skimmed the beams of their flashlights along the swells.  
  
At that moment, Illya Kuryakin saw two hands frantically breaking the surface of the water.  
  


* * * * *

  
Napoleon knew he was dying.  
  
The agent forced his oxygen-starved lungs to override the urge to inhale, whether it be air or water. The ocean now had all but buried him. His strength was practically gone; he had given up fighting the turbulence, allowing the ebb and flow of the tide to jostled him relentlessly.  
  
And then, by some miracle, the water would recede sufficiently for him to gasp and refill his aching lungs with air.  
  
A numbing sensation prevented his muscles from rebelling against the chilled waters. His wetsuit shielded him only minimally against the cold. He knew none of these sensations mattered.  
  
Despite his fatigue and disorientation, his arms instinctively continued to flail above him.  
  
And then he saw the light.  
  
Beams of white light flooded over where he stood buried, breaking through the water even as it washed over him. The light remained constant.  
  
Initially the sight of this white beam jarred his senses and he froze. Through his fogginess he assumed it was the White Light he would see before being swept up to Heaven.  
  
Heaven?  
  
Was he now to expect the Grim Reaper or the Angel of Death? Almost giddy with disorientation, Napoleon opened his eyes under water and looked around for a hooded man with a scythe shuffling alone the ocean floor. No such apparition appeared.  
  
His heart beat furiously as though it would burst within his chest. He continued fighting his watery nemesis in the slimmest of hopes he could stave off the inevitable. The ocean’s force violently bent and swayed his body again. With a surge of adrenaline, he thrashed his arms furiously in defiance.  
  
Suddenly, mysteriously, something grabbed Napoleon Solo around his chest. Unable to discern exactly what had taken hold of him, the agent clawed at it to gain higher ground as a drowning man would naturally do. Whatever had wrapped itself around him refused to let go.  
  
Whoever, whatever had him in their grasp tugged him upward. His legs remained firmly entrapped in the sand, his torso distending as far as possible. A vision of the Angel of Death having difficulty freeing him from this watery tomb flashed across his mind. He almost laughed.  
  
Another tug at his torso caused his body to rise slightly and immediately he felt the cold night air on his face. His mouth opened, gasping for air and choking on sea water that trickled down his throat.  
  
Before Napoleon could begin processing what was happening, fingers pressed both sides of his cheeks to open his mouth wider. The agent pulled his head away as something rubbery was forced between his teeth. Somehow, his head was steadied and his jaw manually shut around a rubber mouthpiece.  
  
Napoleon Solo felt the gentle flow of oxygen enter his lungs as he now breathed.  
  
He stopped resisting and opened his eyes to see a black-clad man in a scuba mask kneeling before him, clutching him tightly. The agent immediately sized up the situation as Thrush returning for him. Perhaps the bosses at Thrush Central had a change of heart and would prefer keeping the UNCLE agent alive for interrogation. Perhaps the Angel of Death would prove more humane.  
  
Again Solo’s training kicked in and he tried pulling away from this man’s grasp. It took only seconds to realize he was too weak and tired to put up any sort of resistance.  
  
As his arms settled to his side, Napoleon felt the vibration of his captor’s voice against his chest. The CEA should have assumed Thrush would send more than one man.  
  
Looking up, Solo noticed flashlight beams shining from behind him. One of the beams slid across his captor’s mask, illuminating blue eyes beneath. The eyes were intense, worried, familiar. He squinted at the man’s eyes... just to be sure...  
  
Napoleon Solo nodded weakly and the man holding him returned the nod.  
  
The agent shut his eyes and fell against Illya Kuryakin’s chest.  
  
Kendeh Banti and Johnathan Sierra had immediately begun digging Napoleon out of the sand. Only now had Solo become aware of their fingers clawing at the sand around him, trying to free him.  
  
Kuryakin tapped Napoleon’s shoulder to get his attention. Solo looked up. Through his partner’s mask, Napoleon could see the obvious relief in Illya’s eyes. Illya released his grip and brushed back the hair covering his partner’s eyes to make sure there was recognition. The senior agent nodded again.  
  
Illya took a deep breath and submerged himself to help dig out his partner.  
  
As usual, Illya maintained his façade of reserve. He was inwardly thankful the darkness masked the worried look etched on his face. Even while he and his two agents had searched for Napoleon, Kuryakin was detached, professional. Business as usual. He made sure neither Kendeh nor Johnathan saw the raw emotion eating away at his gut.  
  
Throughout their years of working side by side, Illya Kuryakin had come to realize that this man, his partner, was one of the driving forces in his life. Making friends had never been one of his strong points. People generally steered clear of him, whether it be his nationality, his prickliness, or his unwillingness to show whatever true emotions he was feeling.  
  
Napoleon was different. From the beginning, he was the peacemaker, the one half of their team who extended himself wholeheartedly to form a bond. It took a while, but Illya finally took hold of the olive branch Napoleon had proffered for so long. And once he allowed himself to open up and accept the friendship, he was smitten.  
  
Tonight, the Russian felt the fear of never seeing his partner again. Losing Napoleon meant losing a part of his life, creating a vacuum no one else could fill.  
  
But the fates were kind tonight.  
  
Illya surfaced for air every moment or so. The tide continued inching up the shoreline. In the matter of moments, Napoleon was completely submerged and would have surely been dead had they not found him.  
  
The three UNCLE agents worked furiously to extricate Napoleon. Solo felt their fingers clawing at the sand around his waist, working their way to his hips. The oxygen from Illya’s scuba tank fueled him sufficiently to help them dig.  
  
Despite their efforts, much of the headway made was lost with each ocean swell that washed over them. The team did not appear deterred by these continual setbacks and kept digging. Each time Illya stood, he wrapped his arms around Napoleon’s chest and pulled upward.  
  
Initially Napoleon could not move below his waist. After many of Illya’s tugs, combined with the digging around him, the senior agent felt his hips able to shift slightly.  
  
Sierra’s and Banti’s fingers kept scooping away the sand around Solo’s hips and legs. The agent cooperated by moving his legs as much as possible each time Kuryakin pulled him upward.  
  
Each pull brought more movement. Once the sand had sufficiently loosened around him and his legs gained more mobility, each tug lifted him further out of the hole.  
  
A final pull wrenched him free. Napoleon felt himself being dragged to the surface by his partner. A firm grip steadied him as he knelt in the chest-deep water.  
  
“Can you make it to the boat?” Illya shouted above the roar of the waves.  
  
Napoleon nodded.  
  
Wordlessly, Illya helped Solo to his feet. Had it not been for the Russian’s firm grip, his legs would have crumpled beneath him.  
  
The agent realized he was still attached to Kuryakin’s air tank and began removing the mouthpiece. Illya grasped Napoleon’s hand to stop him. “Here,” was the Russian’s only word as he removed his tank and slipped it over Solo’s back. The buckles were then fastened across Solo's chest.  
  
“Let’s go!” Kuryakin ordered. He moved around Napoleon and gently nudged him behind the knees, forcing the CEA to fall backwards. Three pairs of hands grasped the straps securing his air tank and pulled him toward their anchored boat.  
  


* * * * *

  
“That is correct, Sir,” Illya Kuryakin said into his communicator as the UNCLE craft lurched towards Headquarter’s river entrance. “He’s right here. Do you wish to speak to him?”  
  
“Not at the moment, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly said. “I’ll meet up with him in Medical.”  
  
Illya looked at his partner and smiled slightly, knowing how the two of them absolutely hated being tended to by the medical staffers.  
  
“I’m sure he is looking forward to that, Mr. Waverly” the agent mused. “Kuryakin out.”  
  
Napoleon Solo sat huddled beneath several blankets, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. His partner sat down next to him and placed a strong, comforting arm around his shoulder.  
  
The CEA’s whole body was shaking. Illya assumed it was a combination of the cold ocean and night air with a little bit of shock mixed in. He also factored in the possibility of his partner having been drugged.  
  
There was no need for conversation. Their years of working together honed their use of nonverbal communication, and the Russian simply knew that Napoleon did not feel like talking at the moment. They sat side-by-side in companionable silence while Kendeh Banti and Johnathan Sierra piloted the craft to Headquarters.  
  
As the black of the nighttime sky melded into softer blues and purples of predawn, the boat neared UNCLE’s waterway entrance. Kuryakin hoped it was sufficiently dark to still mask the look of concern and relief shrouding his face. He did have an image to maintain.  
  
Sections of New York City were beginning to bask in the back glow of early dawn as they sailed into Headquarters.


	4. Chapter 4

Illya Kuryakin kept consulting the clock on the waiting room wall. During the moments he was not cursing time’s sluggish passage, he paced with uneasy speed.  
  
Sierra and Banti had stayed with him since their 6:42 am arrival. They had all hastily changed out of their wetsuits and into dry suits after handing Napoleon over to Dr. Jonas Fine. Only three quarters of an hour now had passed.  
  
When Sierra and Banti could no longer stand the nervous pacing, they informed him they were leaving to grab a bite to eat and start their reports... and would the Russian care to join them?  
  
Kuryakin slowed his pace and looked into his co-agents eyes. He smiled slightly, sensing their underlying message. Deep inside he appreciated their kindness and friendship. Most other agents would have just bid him a good-bye before leaving, only to return later to check on Napoleon’s condition.  
  
“No thank you,” the Russian said softly. He stopped and shook Sierra’s and Banti’s hands. “You did an exemplary job last night. “ He paused a moment. “And thank you for indulging me to find Napoleon. I realize it was a long shot.”  
  
“We wouldn’t’ve had it any other way!” Sierra assured him.  
  
“I thought for certain Mr. Solo had purchased the ranch,” Kendeh Banti chuckled, his Nigerian accent more evident in his fatigue.  
  
Johnathan Sierra burst out laughing. “Kendeh, the phrase is ‘Bought the farm’.”  
  
Banti looked at Illya for confirmation of his partner’s correction. The Russian shrugged his shoulders. “It sounded correct to me.”  
  


* * * * *

  
“How is he?”  
  
Dr. Jonas Fine winced and cringed up at the familiar voice advancing from behind. The doctor took a deep breath before turning around to appease Illya Kuryakin. He knew better than to stonewall the Russian.  
  
“Mr. Kuryakin, we’ve only had him in our clutches for the past hour. Thrush has had him much longer than we have.”  
  
Illya glowered at the doctor. He was in no mood for humor.  
  
“Okay, okay,” Dr. Fine said, sensing Kuryakin’s rising anger and frustration. “We’ve tested his blood, x-rayed every inch of his body, and are about to do our examination. Illya, we can only work so fast. You of all people should know that. We’re going to be a while.” He eyed the Russian’s jaw clench tighter.  
  
Illya’s voice almost dripped with sarcasm. “In your professional opinion,” he prodded, “what can you tell me?”  
  
“My professional opinion prefers to wait until we have all the test results in. Mr. Kuryakin, I have been on duty for the past twelve hours. My shift ended at 6 am. But since I know the two of you inside and out...” the doctor suppressed a chuckle. “... I chose to stay on for your partner’s sake.”  
  
“Surely you can give me some insight...”  
  
Dr. Fine was visibly losing his patience. “Go get something to eat. Go for a walk. Go get laid... I personally don’t care... just go and let me do my job.”  
  
Jonas Fine turned to walk away, but stopped in his tracks after a few paces. He turned back around to Kuryakin, who had not budged one inch. “But to answer your question, he seems to be doing relatively well. Thrush drugged him and his mental acuity is a tad diminished. We’re in the process of finding out what they had drugged him with. He has bruising around his ribs... he said he had been kicked several times, and his lip has a nasty cut. He is having a little difficulty moving. The stiffness he now feels will get worse by tomorrow. Other than that, Mr. Kuryakin, he seems to just peachy.” He watched Kuryakin relax slightly. “Now go get something to eat, will ‘ya?”  
  
The Russian silently nodded and turned to leave.  
  
“I’ll call you as soon as I know more.” Jonas Fine’s voice faded as the doors slid shut.  
  


  
**9:33 am**  
  
It seemed only logical that burying oneself in paperwork would pass the time. After treating himself to a rather large Commissary breakfast, Kuryakin did just that. He returned to his and Solo’s shared office and began his report to Alexander Waverly. He had all but completed his portion of it when the telephone rang.  
  
Illya listened and smiled slightly and thanked Jonas Fine before putting down the receiver and rushing through the halls to Medical.  
  
When Illya arrived, Napoleon was sound asleep. He looked peaceful, comfortable. The fear and stress his face had exhibited several hours earlier were gone.  
  
Dr. Fine joined him shortly after he came to Solo’s bedside.  
  
“We had to sedate him a bit,” Jonas said softly, checking the bottles of fluid entering the agent’s veins.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“He became agitated. It’s a common side effect of serum Thrush used. We’ve counteracted it and by the time he wakes up, he should be in a better frame of mind.”  
  
Kuryakin sat down next to Solo, nudging him slightly. There was no response other than a silly little smile creeping across the CEA’s face. The usually dour Russian chuckled slightly. “He appears to be having a very pleasant dream.”  
  
“Which is what I plan to be having very shortly,” Jonas Fine said, looking at his wristwatch. “Illya, he will be fine. I’m going to recommend he stay here overnight for observation, but I know him... and I know he will probably have his usual temper tantrum to go home.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Dr. Artois will be taking over for me once I leave. IF Napoleon is well enough to leave and IF he is discharged, would you take the responsibility of getting him home and keeping him out of trouble?”  
  
Kuryakin furrowed his brow. “Trouble?”  
  
“Aw, c’mon, Kuryakin. You know what I’m referring to. If he is released, he needs to go straight home and to bed. He can’t go out drinking and carousing ‘till all hours of the morning. He’s weaker than he’ll want to admit and he’s probably going to feel like hell for awhile. Can you handle that?”  
  
Illya smirked. “I have handled those bigger and badder than he.” The agent stood up and shook Dr. Jonas Fine’s hand. “Of course I will. Now... go home and get some sleep!”  
  


* * * * *

  
  
“There is no reason to keep me here overnight!”  
  
Napoleon’s angry voice bellowed through the halls of the Medical suite. Dr. Artois was new to UNCLE NY and Solo knew it. He had grown tired of trying to cajole this self-righteous hard-ass into letting him leave. The situation now called for tough-guy tactics.  
  
“Mr. Solo,” Dr. Augustin Artois said, trying to reason with the agent, “I can’t, in good consciousness, let you leave. You’ve been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours. Your stamina is low and your judgment is somewhat impaired. You’re a walking liability, not to mention easy pickings if Thrush wanted you back.”  
  
Napoleon tossed back the covers to begin his exit. “I’ve taken care of myself under worse scenarios, Doctor. Now if you would be so kind as to discharge me, I’d like to get home to watch my Soaps!”  
  
“I can’t do that, Mr. Solo. Just accept that fact that you’re going to be our guest tonight.”  
  
Dr. Artois turned around and left. Napoleon was fuming. Yes, he knew he was not at peak form and that his brain was still a little fuzzy, but that’s what partners came in handy for... _Where the hell IS he?_ Solo fumed to himself.  
  
As if on cue, Illya Kuryakin walked through the sliding door.  
  
“At least your lungs are working,” the Russian mused. “I believe half of UNCLE heard you just now.”  
  
“There’s no reason to keep me here!” Solo snarled. “I would recuperate much better at home in my own bed, without the medical staffers bothering me every twenty minutes.” He paused a few seconds and looked up at his partner, smiling sheepishly. “Can you spring me from this joint?”  
  
Kuryakin shrugged his shoulders. “You seem to forget that it is you with the diplomatic skills, not I. If you cannot convince them of your wellness, I doubt I can have any bearing on their decision.”  
  
Solo glowered at Illya, annoyed that his partner would not come to his assistance. After all the predicaments they had gotten each other out of, this should have been easy.  
  
“Well?” Napoleon snapped.  
  
Illya smirked slightly. “Of course I will try.”  
  
The Russian depressed the call button by his partner’s bed and requested Dr. Artois come back in.  
  
“The answer is still ‘no!’” Dr. Artois announced as he entered.  
  
“Would you please explain why?” Illya asked in the most civil tone he could muster.  
  
Augustin Artois laid out his reasons why he felt Solo should not leave, only to have Illya Kuryakin counter every one of them with sound reasoning. Finally, the Russian swore he would play mother hen to his partner and not let him out of his sight. He promised to take Napoleon home and tuck him into bed; no wine, no women, no whoring about.  
  
Dr. Jonas Fine had briefed the new doctor about Section Two agents, and these two in particular. Augustin Artois realized now that everything Jonas had told him was true.  
  
After tough negotiations, Dr. Artois agreed to discharge Napoleon, but not before 5 pm. He wanted to be sure that the agent would be leaving in relatively good condition.  
  
Once he was satisfied that the CEA would survive the night away from Medical, he gave both Solo and Kuryakin distinct instructions and demanded that Napoleon return the next morning for a follow-up visit and physical therapy. The doctor then handed Kuryakin a paper envelope of muscle relaxants, plus a few other goodies, and sent them on their way.  
  


  
  
**6 pm Tuesday Evening**  
  
Kendeh Banti and Johnathan Sierra escorted the agents to the door of Napoleon Solo’s apartment.  
  
“Are you sure you’re going to be OK?” Sierra asked while Illya Kuryakin began unlocking the door.  
  
Napoleon looked him straight in the eye and nodded. “Yes. A few hours sleep in my own bed will work wonders.”  
  
After the third lock was unlatched, the door swung open.  
  
 _Just hold on a little longer!_ Solo warned himself, trying his hardest not to stagger into his living room. _Shut the damned door already, Illya!  
  
_ A wave of relief flowed over him when he heard the last of the locks secured. He was home. Safe. With the comfort and security of his closest friend.  
  
His knees rebelled against the weight of his own body and threatened to drop him where he stood.  
  
Wordlessly, Illya took hold of his upper arm to support him while reactivating the alarm. Even in his weakened state, Napoleon Solo marveled at his partner’s economy of motion.  
  
Then a strong arm wrapped around his back, supporting him further. Solo shut his eyes for a brief second, savoring the closeness between them. A subtle wave of excitement flushed him as the Russian gently led him to the bedroom.  
  
As they walked through the doorway, Napoleon came to his senses. _This is absurd!_ he admonished himself. _Why the hell am I dwelling on this?_  
  
“You did put on a good show for the Medical staffers,” Kuryakin mused. “A veritable Academy Award performance, if I may say so.”  
  
Solo weakly nodded. He hoped he could make it to bed before collapsing.  
  
As he approached the mattress, Napoleon’s hand automatically rested upon its soft bedding to steady himself as he sat. Kuryakin helped him out of his suit jacket and draped it across the clothing valet in the corner near the window.  
  
By the time Illya returned, Napoleon was sprawled out on top of the bedspread.  
  
“Let me help you out of those clothes,” Kuryakin offered, sitting down next to his partner.  
  
The only response he got was a quiet grunt.  
  
“Now, be reasonable, Napoleon,” Kuryakin said softly. “Do you really want to wear a rather expensive Italian silk suit as your pajamas?”  
  
Napoleon rolled on his side, ignoring Illya’s remarks.  
  
“At least take off your shoes.”  
  
The CEA took a deep breath, then nodded in resignation as Illya removed one and then the other.  
  
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Kuryakin asked after placing the custom made leather footwear on the floor. He paused for a few seconds. “Now, what about your trousers? I doubt Mr. Waverly will cover its dry cleaning and pressing on your expense account.”  
  
“Could you just leave me alone?” Solo quietly asked, irritated by Illya’s ministrations. _Why am I fighting this?_  
  
“Yes, I could, but I choose not to, my friend.”  
  
“Do I need to shoot you?”  
  
Kuryakin snorted at the absurdity of his comment. “Good luck trying. Now come on, about your trousers...”  
  
Napoleon rolled on to his back and glared at his partner. “If I do it, will you let me sleep?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
A quiet grunt of annoyance sounded from the bed as Napoleon unbuckled his belt and unzipped the zipper. He felt Illya tugging at the cuffs, informing him that all he needed to do was lift his hips and the Russian would do the rest. The trousers slid down his legs effortlessly.  
  
Napoleon silently sucked air through his clenched teeth. The friction of fabric against skin was arousing despite his lethargy. The tingle in his groin could prove embarrassing - he willed it to cease. _That would be embarrassing!  
_  
While Illya emptied the pockets and hung up the trousers by their cuffs, Napoleon mustered the fortitude to unfasten his holster, loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt. Before he finished, a strong arm slid under his shoulders and helped him sit up.  
  
Napoleon nodded in appreciation, silently thankful for his partner’s perseverance despite his irritability. Kuryakin slid the the leather straps of the holster off his friend’s shoulders and placed the gun under the pillow, then removed the shirt and tie. Finally, Illya helped Napoleon slip under the covers.  
  
Sleep enveloped him almost immediately. Thrush’s drugs plus the medications administered at headquarters to counteract them were still coursing through his veins, dulling his pain and numbing his senses. The muscle relaxants compounded his fatigue.  
  
Illya sat with him for a while, nestled in the overstuffed armchair resting near the far side of the bed. He watched Napoleon sleep, listening to the soft sounds of breaths entering and leaving his body. Once assured that the CEA was in deep slumber, he stood and silently walked into the living room.  
  
The sounds of the apartment’s alarms being deactivated woke Napoleon from his slumber. His senses assured him he was in his own bedroom as he heard the familiar sound of his doors being unlocked and the alarms reset. The final sound he heard was the door quietly shutting and the locks being engaged.  
  
Illya had gone.  
  
Napoleon lay in the darkness, breathing heavily. A wave of loss and loneliness flooded him, almost bringing him to tears. His mind raced in an attempt to sort out the reason for this sudden attack of insecurity. There was no rationale for him to feel this way. He was home, safe, in his own bed and out of harm’s way. He had survived another of Thrush’s assaults against him, thanks to Illya.  
  
Illya.  
  
He shivered slightly as his mind drifted to the complete feeling of helplessness and isolation he all too recently felt at the hands of Thrush. He suddenly relived the whole ordeal of being buried in the ocean floor, watching the tides rise and flow over him, slowly smothering him, then receding to give him the hope of a few more moments of life.  
  
The panic, the fear, the feelings of complete helplessness were so overwhelming, he covered his face in his arms to block out the images. It took a silent reprimand to stop himself from these damning thoughts. This was not the first near-death experience he had. And realistically, he reminded himself, he survived it in better physical condition than on many other occasions.  
  
Then Illya found him. Saved him...again. He remembered Illya’s strong arms wrapped around his chest, the vibrations he felt as the Russian spoke with Kendeh Banti and Johnathan Sierra, the subtle touches to let him know he was going to make it through with flying colors... the look of assurance in those startling blue eyes through the scuba mask.  
  
The realization now hit him like a ton of bricks.  
  
He was in love with his partner.  
  
For a moment or so, he lay still mulling over his feelings for Illya. He smiled at the thought of touching, caressing, holding his partner. On the job, they had been in close physical contact innumerable times. Kuryakin’s warm, muscular body was a work of art.  
  
Napoleon tried imagining the sensations of kissing the Russian’s lips, feeling their bodies hot and naked and sweaty against each other.  
  
And how would the sex feel? Would Illya be aggressive? Passive?  
  
The agent’s thoughts shifted to workouts in UNCLE’s gym. He and Illya had sparred and wrestled more times than he could possibly remember. They would grasp and grope each other to gain control, roll over the padded mats and pin each other down. Although they were competitive, they would always leave each session on good terms, usually smiling or laughing over their mistakes.  
  
Looking back, Kuryakin’s body did feel good against his own.  
  
Then his mood darkened slightly. His mind flooded with the ramifications of such a liaison. They would have to hide their relationship, of course. If word got out that they were homosexual, their careers would be ruined. Although the UNCLE rule book did not specifically limit with whom agents could be sexually involved, the social mores did.  
  
And how would Illya react? There had always been the hushed rumors that the Russian was homosexual, but Solo ignored them. There had been nothing, absolutely nothing in their current working relationship that would justify those rumors. Would Illya ball up his fast and plant it across Napoleon’s nose? - or would he laugh at the absurdity of embarking on a homosexual relationship? - or would he walk out of Napoleon’s life completely?  
  
Napoleon sighed and shut his eyes. Perhaps these feelings were a side effect of the drugs.  
  
His mind shifted to the present and he silently regretted having been such a grouch.  
  
“I would have gone home, too,” he mumbled to no one. “Maybe it’s for the best.” Solo doubted that his partner would have reacted well to his epiphany.  
  
He cocooned himself in the blankets to protect himself against the anxiety he was feeling. UNCLE’s drugs had again taken deep hold of him. His thoughts ceased to process as sleep took him once more.  
  


  
  
**Many Hours Later**  
  
It began as a dull ache - sore ribs, tight abdominal muscles, stiff back, stiff neck, all melding together with each breath. At first, Napoleon Solo tried ignoring it and forcing himself back to sleep. At least the bed beneath him was comfortable.  
  
Each breath kindled the ache further until it pained him into full awakedness.  
  
In the darkness, he suppressed any outcries until he knew where he was. His eyes opened and silently scoured the room for a few seconds until he realized he was in his own bed. The familiar glow from the cityscape softly radiated around closed curtains confirmed this. It was then and only then he allowed himself the luxury of gritting his teeth and releasing the groan welling up inside.  
  
A shadowy figure floated across his bedroom, blotting out the curtain’s glow for a split second. The agent instinctively tried to reach under his pillow for his weapon, but his muscles would not cooperate. Before his hand made it near the pillow, a familiar voice spoke his name in a low, tenor timbre.  
  
“Napoleon, are you all right?” Illya Kuryakin asked.  
  
White-gold hair shone atop pale skin in the ambient light of the bedroom. The mattress shifted slightly as the Russian sat down beside him. A strong but gentle hand stopped him from drawing his gun.  
  
“Napoleon,” Kuryakin repeated, “it’s me - Illya.”  
  
Solo tried to shift his weight, only to have his body rebel. He cried out in pain.  
  
“I’m turning on the light,” Illya warned softly. He shielded his partner’s eyes with one hand while pulling the lamp’s chain with his other. Napoleon shut his eyes and turned his head away.  
  
Once his eyes adjusted, Napoleon looked his partner.  
  
“I thought you left,” he said slowly.  
  
Illya pushed the hair off Napoleon’s forehead and moved a little closer towards his face. “I did. I needed to get a few things, then I returned,” he explained as he looked into Solo’s eyes. The pupils were somewhat dilated. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Not too good,” Solo honestly replied.  
  
“What kind of pain?” the Russian asked, noting his friend’s short inhalations and difficulty moving.  
  
“Like every rib is broken.” He paused a second or two before trying to get up. “And I need the toilet.”  
  
Again, Illya placed strong hands on him to stop him from moving. Once the agent was still, he stood and fetched his overnight bag. Seconds later he returned with a capped syringe.  
  
“Fortunately for you, my friend, your ribs are not broken,” Illya smiled as he uncapped the needle. “But your muscles have taken quite a beating during your dip in the ocean, and this...” he waved the syringe slightly, “...will give you some relief.”  
  
Napoleon held up his hand to stop his partner. Through gritted teeth, he asked: “And just what the hell is that?” Christ, he hurt!  
  
“Jonas Fine gave this to me before he left. It’s Medical’s special brand of muscle relaxant.”  
  
“I’m not in Medical!”  
  
“Perhaps you should be.” Illya smiled slightly. “He gave this to me in case you are feeling more than the proverbial ‘minor discomfort’ you usually claim to have.”  
  
Solo grunted. “I learned from the best.”  
  
“So you have. But you will do more harm to your muscles by not relaxing them sufficiently to begin healing.”  
  
“No - just give me some aspirin.”  
  
Illya reached into his bag and produced a jar of alcohol-soaked cotton balls. He silently took one from the jar and swabbed Napoleon’s upper arm, ignoring his partner’s objections.  
  
“I promised Dr. Fine I would give this to you if you were in pain, and to be quite honest, you appear to be hurting alot.”  
  
“Illya....” Solo growled.  
  
The Russian looked into Napoleon’s eyes. “And you know I am a man of my word.”  
  
Napoleon closed his eyes in resignation and let Illya administer the drug. In less than a minute, he could feel its effects beginning to calm his throbbing muscles and dull his pain.  
  
“Let me help you up,” Illya offered.  
  
Solo nodded and allowed Kuryakin to ease his legs over the edge of the bed before bringing his torso upright. While he willed the walls to stop moving, Illya reached to the nightstand and removed a saucer which covered a mug. The Russian deftly slipped what was on the saucer into the palm of his hand and offered it to Napoleon.  
  
“Aw, c’mon, Illya,” Solo groaned. “Enough of this already.” He tried swatting his partner’s hand away.  
  
Kuryakin did not budge. He held the two white pills in front of Napoleon’s face with one hand and the mug of water in the other.  
  
“When I negotiated your release from Medical, the terms disimprisonment included taking these pills.”  
  
Solo glared at the Russian. “You’re full of crap.”  
  
“I kid you not, Napoleon. And I always keep my promises.”  
  
“Just give me the damned aspirin!” Solo seethed through gritted teeth. Why was Kuryakin being so persistent?  
  
“I cannot do that, my friend,” Illya said softly. He nudged Solo’s shoulder with his elbow. “Then at least humor me... for old time’s sake, okay?”  
  
“You are so annoying...”  
  
The Russian simply smiled a little and shrugged his shoulders, then offered the pills and water to his partner again.  
  
Napoleon huffed in anger before popping the two white pills in his mouth and washing them down with the water.  
  
“I need to go to the bathroom.”  
  
Napoleon sat still for a moment, getting his bearings before Illya helped him stand.  
  
The room undulated around him slightly with his first step. Illya was at his side, steadying him and helping him to the bathroom.  
  
Solo practically slammed the door shut behind him.  
  
“Are you hungry?” the Russian asked through the closed bathroom door.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Is that a ‘maybe’?”  
  
“Go away.”  
  
“Don’t count on it.”  
  
“I am relieving you of guard duty. Go home!”  
  
“Are you very hungry or just ‘peckish’?”  
  
“For Chrissake, Illya....”  
  
Illya shook his head and went to the kitchen to heat water for tea. He quickly put together a light snack for the two of them.  
  
The Russian took no offense at his partner’s foul mood. Napoleon’s mind had been assaulted by Thrush's drugs, and his body had been battered by both Thrush and the Atlantic Ocean. He understood the frustration of being incapacitated... of needing help from anyone. Illya also knew that none of the nastiness was aimed directly at him. It was merely an emotional outlet.  
  
 _This too shall pass_ , Kuryakin mused to himself.  
  
The toilet flushed after several minutes, followed by the sound of water running in the sink. Illya was waiting at the bathroom door when the flow stopped. Napoleon emerged with a light blue terry cloth robe belted around his waist.  
  
The agent was pale with dark circles under his eyes. The bright lights of the bathroom seemed to suddenly age him. He made no eye contact with the Russian. The usual confident stride was a little halting.  
  
Illya sloughed it off as the drugs coupled with fatigue. He moved closer to help his partner but Napoleon shouldered him away.  
  
“I don’t need a nursemaid!”  
  
“Of course not,” the Russian returned dryly.  
  
Napoleon paused in the hallway and sniffed the air. “What smells so good?”  
  
“Muffins.”  
  
“Muffins?”  
  
“Yes, muffins. Warming in the oven. But of course, if you feel it beneath you to join me for a snack, then by all means go back to bed.”  
  
Napoleon squinted in the bright light and cocked his head to the side. “Where did you get muffins?”  
  
“Like I told you earlier, I left to get a few things. I saw your cupboards were bare... is that not what your nursery rhymes call it?... and found these wonderful muffins in the bakery down the street while gathering a few other edibles for you.”  
  
“Hmmm” Solo grunted, entering the kitchen.  
  
The table was set for two. The CEA silently took a seat while Illya proceeded to bring them cups of tea and two perfectly warmed muffins from the oven.  
  
“I have blueberry and cranberry-walnut,” Kuryakin said as he presented the small cakes to Napoleon. “Since you are the one in need of TLC, I will let you have first choice.”  
  
In an unusually indecisive gesture, Solo shrugged his shoulders.  
  
“Then perhaps, my friend, I shall cut each one in two and we can share.”  
  
“Okay,” Napoleon mumbled quietly.  
  
The snack was shared in companionable silence. Illya knew Napoleon was not up for his usual banter and did not take the lack of conversation personally.  
  
He kept careful watch as Napoleon ate, hoping the nausea associated with drugs he had administered would not be a problem. Illya also observed Solo’s lackluster affect as he picked at the muffin. Kuryakin slid his chair closer to Napoleon and affectionately massaged his upper arm. The physical contact made Solo’s heart beat faster.  
  
“You should be feeling a little better by tomorrow, Napoleon,” he assured his partner.  
  
The CEA nodded without a word. He looked into Illya’s pale blue eyes to see the connection he so feared would not be there. A true friend loves you no matter what mood you are in.  
  
“Let me help you back to bed.”  
  
This time, Napoleon did not even resist Illya’s help, leaving the remaining food and tea on the table. He just didn’t care.  
  
In the bedroom, Illya helped Solo out of his robe. Napoleon shivered as the cool air washed over his flesh, leaving his exposed skin covered with goose bumps. Kuryakin gently helped his partner lay down and covered him with the blanket.  
  
Napoleon lay on his back and slowly shut his eyes. He felt the mattress shift as Illya sat down next to him.  
  
“Is there anything else you need?” the Russian quietly asked.  
  
Solo opened his eyes and smiled a little. He really did appreciate all his dour Russian partner had done for him this evening and would probably have to apologize profoundly when he felt better. “No,” he replied instinctively. He immediately regretted not telling Illya to lay with him.  
  
The mattress shifted again as Illya stood to shut off the bedside lamp.  
  
“Are you staying the night?” Napoleon asked just before the chain was pulled.  
  
“I was planning to... unless you would really prefer I leave.”  
  
“No. Feel free to sack out here.”  
  
Illya nodded and reached for the lamp’s chain again.  
  
“Listen, Illya... if you’d like...” Napoleon said with slight hesitation, motioning to the other side of the bed.  
  
“Hmmm - it is rather large,” Kuryakin mused, scratching his head and scrunching his nose. “You do realize that in my village, a bed this size would accommodate an entire family plus visiting relatives.”  
  
Napoleon actually chuckled a little. “Then it should be able to hold the two of us without any problem.”  
  
Inside, the CEA breathed a sigh of relief. He needed the comfort and security of his friend tonight.  
  
He watched as Illya walked to the other side of the bed and removed his shoes. Then his trousers. Then his socks. Before removing his turtleneck sweater, the Russian unfastened his holster and placed the gun under his pillow. All that finally remained was his underwear.  
  
Solo looked away and felt his mind start to wander. After many years of working together, he now realized how much of a kinship, an affection, a love, he felt for this man, the only person he could trust with his life, his secrets, even his insecurities. His tough veneer weakened once in a while, and this was one of those occasions. The thought of being completely alone tonight almost terrified him.  
  
 _It must be the drugs. Yes - that’s it._  
  
A slight cool whisp of air roused him from his thoughts as Illya raised the covers to slip into bed. The Russian moved a little closer, pulling the blanket up around him.  
  
Had this been one of his _femmes du jour_ , Napoleon would have swept her in his arms by now, lavishing her with his special brand of passionate kisses and affection and attention. She would have probably melted under his spell and been smitten. Napoleon would have been aroused by her scent, by her feel, by her touches, but before satisfying his own release, he would have made sure his partner was equally aroused. Solo had prided himself in his ability to satisfy even the most picky of sexual appetites.  
  
But this was different. This was Illya. And perhaps this partner would not be as willing as his women.  
  
“Good night, Napoleon.”  
  
“G’night.”  
  
Solo turned slightly on his right side to shut the light. The motion of turning and reaching stretched something unyielding in his torso. Illya heard the abrupt intake of air and stopped his partner.  
  
“I’ll get it,” he said, moving closer to Napoleon to reach the lamp.  
  
The look in Napoleon’s eyes stopped him. It revealed a mixture of pain and fear, of insecurity and need.  
  
Silently, Illya slid his right arm under Napoleon and eased him on his left side, bringing them closer. In a smooth movement, Illya pulled him into an embrace, wrapping his arms and body around him in a protective cocoon.  
  
Napoleon buried his face in his friend’s shoulder. He let down his defenses and allowed Illya to hold him, to give him a total sense of safety and unconditional friendship. The fears he faced welled to the surface, causing his body to tremble. Illya Kuryakin held him tighter.  
  
“It must have been terribly scary,” was all Illya said when he felt Napoleon was ready to talk.  
  
Napoleon nodded slightly, afraid to speak. He was not sure what would come out. Was Illya ready to hear what he really wanted to say? Would he pull away and leave? This overwhelming insecurity was foreign to him.  
  
“But the Solo luck prevailed, yes?” Kuryakin mused.  
  
“Yes.”

“Actually, you are doing reasonably well, considering you were tossed about like a piece of seaweed for several hours.”  
  
Napoleon winced and shook at the memory of being partially buried underwater. “I’ll get back to you on that one.”  
  
The CEA closed his eyes and sank once more into Illya’s embrace.  
  
“I thought for sure I would die,” Napoleon whispered. “All my training and skills can’t hold back the tides.”  
  
“And you were not able to schmooze your way out of that predicament?” Kuryakin chuckled.  
  
“No, not this one.” He paused and took a deep breath. “When I saw your light, I thought for sure the Angel of Death coming for me.”  
  
“Ah, yes - I believe several religions view death as being swept to heaven by an appropriate angel, yes? Did you realize this myth has its roots from old Slavic tribes?”  
  
“No.” Napoleon really was not particularly interested in a lesson on Slavic Mythology at moment, but the sound of his partner’s voice and the feel of his embrace were so soothing, he simply let him talk.  
  
“Well, the old tribes viewed Death as a woman who wore white clothes. She held a never-fading green sprout in her hand. The touch of this sprout would put a human into everlasting sleep. This concept lasted through Christianization of the Slavic territories and evolved into the image of a hooded man or skeleton with a scythe by the 15th Century. I’ll bet you never knew that.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“You got me instead of the Grim Reaper.”  
  
“Fortunately.” He paused again and gripped tightly on Kuryakin’s undershirt, pressing closer against his rock-hard body. “How the hell did you find me, Illya? The odds of you even coming close to locating me were low.”  
  
“You can thank UNCLE’s technology people for this one, Napoleon. The heat-detecting device is what did it.”  
  
“But you had to be in close proximity to even find this particular heat source.”  
  
The Russian nodded, knowing how slim his chances of finding Solo really were. “All I did was take a few simple calculations, like the speed of Thrush’s boat, tides, where UNCLE picked up your last transmission, and the time which elapsed.” As he spoke, he gently rubbed Napoleon’s back.  
  
“A few simple calculations?” The agent’s voice was slurring. The pills Illya had given him had made it into his bloodstream.  
  
“Yes, my friend. Along with a little insight into Thrush’s vindictive propensities. After reviewing my calculations, I decided that they would have wanted to - how do you Americans put it? - ‘bump you off’ some place ironic to you.”  
  
“They almost did it, too.”  
  
“’Almost’ does not count.”  
  
“This ‘almost’ was a little too close for comfort.” Napoleon’s grip on Illya’s t-shirt tightened. He could feel his own body shaking again and Illya’s firm embrace trying to calm him.  
  
“Look at the bright side, Napoleon. Tomorrow, you get to return to Medical for your follow-up visit, then spend a day in Physical Therapy whipping those muscles back into shape... followed by a dip in the whirlpool and a massage.”  
  
“Did UNCLE hire those nubile young women I recommended as masseuses?” the agent chuckled, sounding almost inebriated.  
  
“No. With your luck, you’ll get either Bruno or Max.”  
  
Solo winced at the prospect of having either of these men, a good 500 pounds of sinew between them, working the kinks out of his muscles.  
  
Napoleon took a deep breath and wrapped his free right arm around Illya’s waist. “Do you love me?” he finally asked.  
  
“Love you?” Illya returned, not sure if he had heard his partner correctly.  
  
Solo nodded silently, almost regretting having asked that loaded question.  
  
“Of course I love you. You are closer to me than a brother.”  
  
“No... I... uh...mean... do you really love me?”  
  
Illya bent his head down to look directly into Napoleon’s chestnut brown eyes. The Russian smiled and kissed his forehead. “Need you ask?”  
  
“I guess this is my ‘needy side’ rearing its ugly, little head.”  
  
Kuryakin laughed and ran his hand through Napoleon’s hair. “Your head is neither ugly nor little.”  
  
“Hmmm.”  
  
“It sounds like you’re fading.”  
  
Napoleon nodded against Illya’s chest.  
  
“How about trying to get some sleep?” the Russian asked.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Illya reached over Napoleon turned off the lamp. He caught sight of the time before the room darkened - 11:15 pm. Plenty of time to get a full night’s sleep.  
  
He was surprised to feel Napoleon’s fist still gripping his undershirt, almost holding on for dear life. He had no memory of his partner ever being so clingy. The Russian knew it was the drugs - both the after effects of Thrush’s potion, and UNCLE’s contribution to the medications.  
  
Illya felt his partner slowly release his hold on the t-shirt and relax. His arms still wrapped around Napoleon, cradling him, quietly reassuring him that he was going to feel better soon.  
  
As the CEA melted into the embrace, his hands cautiously began meandering over the contours of Illya’s chest, the hollows of his neck, the smooth sinew of his arms. He absentmindedly felt his hands move further down his partner’s body to caress the muscles along his thighs.  
  
The Russian made no attempt to stop him, and to Napoleon’s surprise, returned the touches in kind.  
  
At some point, Napoleon’s hands stilled, his breathing slowed and he fell asleep.  
  
Illya kept Napoleon nestled in his arms. They had been through harrowing experiences in the past, both together and separately. Their hardened exteriors never allowed their defenses to drop like this with anyone else. He would be there to support his partner, as Napoleon had supported him in the past. The two agents knew the value of their friendship. And love. This was their only true safe harbor.  
  


  
**Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!**  
  
The urgency of the sound woke both Napoleon and Illya simultaneously.  
  
Napoleon’s first instinct was to roll on his right side to shut off the offending alarm clock, but his body just wouldn’t cooperate.  
  
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!  
  
“I’ll get it,” Illya offered.  
  
Solo closed his eyes and nodded in appreciation as Illya reached across him and quieted the alarm.  
  
The time read 7:30 am.  
  
“Thanks,” Napoleon mumbled, shifting his body a little. The agent stretched his limbs to ease the kinks which stiffened his muscles. He still ached, but his pain had dramatically lessened.  
  
The Russian retreated to his side of the bed again. He wanted to steal a few more moments’ slumber.  
  
As Solo shifted his legs under the covers, he felt an unusual stickiness around his groin and thighs...his abdomen as well; the tackiness he usually felt after sex. Only more of it.  
  
He lifted the covers and looked down at his naked body. No memory of shedding his underwear came to mind.  
  
Then he looked over at Illya. The Russian had immediately fallen into a light sleep with the blanket wrapped tightly around him.  
  
Napoleon tugged the blanket loose and lifted it a little to reveal Illya’s equally naked back. A strong arm yanked the covers out of his hand as Kuryakin rewrapped himself.  
  
The CEA moved a little closer to his partner.  
  
“Illya!” he whispered.  
  
A muffled “Huh” was all he heard back.  
  
“Illya!” Solo repeated, a little louder.  
  
The Russian drew a deep breath before turning around. “Are you now amongst the living and planning to annoy the hell out of me?”  
  
Napoleon ignored the prickliness.  
  
“Illya... last night... did we...?”  
  
“Did we what?” Kuryakin responded impatiently.  
  
“I’m not sure... but it feels like... uh... I’m kind of sticky...”  
  
“Oh. You’re asking if we had sex, yes?”  
  
“Did we?”  
  
Illya rolled on to his right side, facing Napoleon. He propped himself up on his elbow.  
  
“You don’t remember?”  
  
“Remember what?”  
  
“If we had sex.”  
  
“Illya, if I remembered whether or not we had sex, I wouldn’t have to ask you now, would I?”  
  
The Russian moved closer, looking deeply into Napoleon’s eyes. They were clear and he looked alert. “You really don’t remember, do you?”  
  
Solo shook his head slowly. He looked up with a sly grin on his face. “Was it good?”  
  
Kuryakin snorted a laugh. “Is the Pope Catholic?”  
  
Napoleon chuckled a little. “I’ve never had any complaints from the women I’ve slept with.”  
  
“Well, I’m certainly not an expert either, but it was rather pleasurable.”  
  
“Oh? Really?”  
  
Illya drew himself even closer to Napoleon, kissing him on the forehead. The CEA closed his eyes, taking in the sensation of his partner’s seduction.  
  
More gentle kisses caressed his eyelids, then his cheeks, then the hollows of his neck.  
  
“Does any of this jog your memory?” Illya’s voice was husky.  
  
“No... sorry.”  
  
Illya’s full, soft lips brushed against Napoleon’s mouth, feathering him with gentle kisses.  
  
“How about this?” Kuryakin asked.  
  
“Nope.”  
  
Napoleon felt himself being drawn into a tight embrace, languishing in the sensations of Illya’s muscular body pressed against his own - hot, moist. It was rare that he took the passive role in lovemaking, but then again, it was always with ladies who expected him to take the lead, sexually.  
  
But this was different. Completely different. The CEA felt no need to be the alpha male right now. It was rare that someone tended to his sexual needs before wanting to satisfying their own, and now Illya, his closest friend and partner, was doing just that.  
  
“You didn’t take advantage me of while I was drugged, did you?” Solo mused, his voice breathy.  
  
The Russian kissed him on the mouth again. “Of course not! And my recollection of the event is quite vivid.”  
  
“Pray tell.”  
  
“Your hands were all over me, horny as hell.”  
  
“Now _that_ I remember.” This time, Napoleon captured Illya’s mouth, running his hands along the lithe body lying alongside him. “But I do believe I fell asleep somewhere along the line.”  
  
“Yes you did... but just for a short while.” Illya shifted his body and rolled on top of Napoleon. Solo groaned under the delicious weight of the Russian. Tremors passed through them, their bodies the conduits creating the sensations. “You woke up somewhere around 1:30 with an erection the size of Sandy Hook.”  
  
Napoleon groaned again, this time at the mention of the New Jersey geography near Perth Amboy.  
  
Solo did nothing to deter Illya’s mouth as it invaded his again. The kisses became stronger, deeper, and the agent felt his body physically respond to the seduction.  
  
Illya also felt the response. Napoleon’s growing erection pressed deeply into his abdomen, his own cock in need of attention as well.  
  
In a seamlessly smooth movement, Kuryakin sat back astride his partner’s thighs, freeing their ripe cocks from the confined space between their bodies.  
  
“Bringing back any memories?” Illya asked as he grasped Napoleon’s penis, working his fingers along the shaft and around the head.  
  
Napoleon had broken out in a sweat. Waves and waves of physical excitement tore through his body in way he had never felt before. The only way he could respond to Kuryakin’s question was a feeble ‘maybe’.  
  
“Well, my friend, the recollection of our lovemaking is quite vivid to me. Shall I show you what we did next?”  
  
Solo’s voice was breathless. “Y-yes.”  
  
Illya slid back slightly and bent over his partner, taking the full, engorged penis in his mouth. His right hand reached between Solo’s legs to fondle the wonderfully heavy testicles.  
  
Napoleon’s gasps of sheer pleasure resounded through the bedroom. His hips moved in rhythm with Illya until he felt his cock was about to explode. Just before he felt on the brink of orgasm, he tenderly pulled up Illya’s head and pulled him closer so they lay side by side.  
  
They once again kissed, deeply, passionately, all the while using strong, capable hands to bring each other to orgasm.  
  
Then they lay together in a tight embrace. Pink and hot and sweaty and breathless; their bodies absorbing the beats of each other’s heart. No words were necessary.  
  
After a short while, neither knew exactly how long, Illya raised himself up on his right elbow and gazed into Napoleon’s eyes.  
  
“And that, my friend,” Illya said softly, kissing Napoleon’s nose, “should explain how you got so sticky!”

**Finis**


End file.
